No Going Back
by Flagg1991
Summary: Drew and Charlotte's marriage crumbles and Drew leaves. Luckily, Jonathan is there to console her. Oneshot. [Commission]


Charlotte Pickles blew a frustrated puff of air and held her face in her hands. A tension headache spread across her forehead and her eyes felt dry and grainy; the meek effervescence of the amber sunlight falling through the blinds stung despite its pallor, and the stagnant air made her feel like she was drowning. She rubbed deep, firm circles in her temples and blinked rapidly in an effort to lubricate her tired orbs. Sighing, she sat heavily back, the chair creaking under her weight, and stared at the screen before her, the cursor flashing a mocking tempo. _Hurry up, Charlotte, three days 'til tax day, hurry, hurry, hurry. _She hooked her fingers into the arms of the chair, threw her head back, and let out a groan that came dangerously close to turning into a scream of aggravation.

It was late afternoon and she had been working on MergeCorp's tax paperwork since she came in at seven; the company accountant had a heart attack at the last minute and it was either pay someone else to do it, or do it herself. She stupidly chose the latter. _Gee, I think I'll save a few bucks and handle it on my own. How bad can it be? _

Answer: _Bad._

When she first took over as CEO of MergeCorp, it was still a fairly small firm with fewer than fifty employees and a dozen holdings. While that wasn't a long time ago, a lot had changed in the intervening years. The staff was bigger, the budget was bigger, everything was bigger and ahhhh so much work! God, what was she thinking? No, no, a better question was this: How did the accountant do all of this by himself? That's what lulled her into a false sense of security. A sixty-one year old man took care of the entire company's tax work on his own. _It MUST be easy, _thought she, but she thought wrong. So, so wrong. She'd been working on it for weeks now and her head was so crammed full of numbers that zeros and ones leaked out of her ears every time she tilted her head. She got to work early, stayed late, barely ate, gulped Tums and Advil like candy, skipped lunch, barely showered, and her butt and back were always sore from constantly sitting. Normally, she got up and moved around or brought her yoga mat out and did five or ten minutes, but she just didn't have the time now. It was April 12. Taxes were due in three days and she was still so freaking buried she was practically in China.

That alone had her more knotted than a pretzel, but in addition, a new law passed last year jacked the corporate tax rate up four percent. Even with the acquisition of Famous Ethel's Cookies and Grady International - both very lucrative deals - profits for 2019 were down seven percent. This year's tax rate, for some dumbass reason, was based on what MergeCorp brought in during 2018, which just so happened to be an uncommonly good year, meaning they were being taxed for money they didn't even make last year. She didn't think she'd have to go on a budget slashing spree again, but it was going to be close, and if there was one thing Charlotte hated, it was tight finances. She liked breathing room, not being boxed up in a frickin' coffin, and every time she found herself without it, she went batty. She cut corners where she could, kicked and screamed where she couldn't, and worried herself sick over securing new and bigger acquisitions to increase revenue.

Things would turn out okay in the end because they always did, but that wouldn't stop her from stressing over them, developing an ulcer, and losing sleep.

She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at the screen again. It was just past six by the clock in the lower right corner and she'd be stuck here at least another two hours, maybe longer; she was already frazzled and could hardly think, but she had to push through and get this crap done. She dreaded telling Drew.

At the thought of her husband, Charlotte's chest tightened.

Things weren't the best between them lately. Between his work schedule and hers, they rarely saw each other except for quick hi-and-byes in the morning and at night. When they were together these days, Charlotte had the niggling and indefinable sense of _wrongness_. They sat on opposite sides of the couch, her on her phone and him on his laptop, and they barely even looked at one another. Neither was as easy with the other as they once were and kissing him, being in his arms, even having sex with him, didn't excite her like it used to. They didn't talk or hold hands or laugh anymore. They passed like two ships in the night and the only time they exchanged more than a handful of words was when they were arguing.

Sometimes it was almost like they were strangers.

When she started working late a few weeks back, Drew rolled his eyes. _So that's me doing everything at home_. _Great. _

Uh, excuse me? So you have to pick our daughter up from your brother's house, feed her dinner, and give her a bath. Cry me a river. She told him that in so many words, and he had one of the little bitch fits he'd become so enamored of throwing. _I cook, clean, handle the bills, take care of Angellica, _and _work a full time job. Don't you think that's a lot on me? Meanwhile you're off doing God knows what, probably not even at the office at all. _

That infuriated her, and they yelled at each other for nearly an hour before going to bed, where they lay cold and silent next to each other, close in body but not in heart. As she stared up into the darkness, she imagined she could feel him...and their marriage...slipping through her fingers, and the urge to reach out and touch him, to hold onto what they had, overcame her. She didn't, though, because he acted like a whiny, self-centered little twit and if she was anything, it was proud; he had to apologize to her. She wasn't in the wrong here, it was him.

What did that matter, though? They were drifting apart and if she wasn't careful, their marriage might not survive.

She caught herself and shook her head as if to dispel the notion. So things weren't perfect, big deal. They were both stressed out and overworked. They were tired, irritable, and hadn't made love in weeks. They were bound to snap at each other. Every marriage goes through its rough patches, theirs was no different. And was this really a _rough patch? _They argued and weren't intimate like they were when they were first married. That was normal, wasn't it? They were both in their late thirties and had been together going on sixteen years. Things change. Passions cool and you fall into a groove.

That's all this was.

It had to be, because the alternative was -

Unthinkable.

She went back to all the evenings she spent with him at home, watching him from the corner of her eye and finding faults and flaws where she once saw assets and perfection. It was on a night like that that a startling revelation struck her like a thunderbolt from the blue. She shoved it away as soon as she realized what she was thinking, but it was too late, and right now, it echoed through her head like a damning admission of guilt.

_I don't love him anymore._

That wasn't true, though. She _did _love him. Things were just hard right now. Once this tax stuff was out of the way, it'd get better.

Her mind returned to their latest argument, that morning in the kitchen as they both got ready for work. Angellica sat at the table in her booster seat eating pieces of frozen waffle dipped in syrup and Drew stood at the coffeemaker with his back turned to the world. As soon as Charlotte walked in, the atmosphere darkened and tension crackled like static electricity in the air. His shoulders hunched and she knew even before he opened his mouth that they were going to "disagree."

_I take it you're staying out late again, _he said. There was a bitter, accuatroy edge in his tone that cut Charlotte deeply. _I take it you'll be sleeping with another man and spending all my money on him, _it said.

_At work, yes, Drew, _she said with strained patience.

_So it all falls to me yet again. _

She started to snap, but her eyes went to Angellica. The little girl happily munched her breakfast and swung her legs back and forth, the perfect picture of innocence. When she was Angelica's age, her own parents fought in front of her, and even now, thirty-some years later, she remembered the feelings of fear and confusion those loud, hateful voices stoked in her belly. They loved each other and were still together today, but they fought often in their thirties and forties, and it frankly scared Charlotte as a child. She vowed to never do the same to her own children, and though it took everything she had in her, she kept that promise. _Not now, Drew, _she said through her teeth.

_Can't be later because you won't be here, _he sniffed.

God, sometimes he could be such a self-centered little baby. Like, I'm sorry I'm the CEO of a successful company. I'm sorry CEOs actually have to freaking work. I'm sorry I can't just screw off and do nothing and have everything be okay. You of all people should understand that. Those socialist college kids with Bernie bumper stickers on their hand-me-down pieces of shit Hondas think CEOs just sit there and twiddle their thumbs all day while reaping in stolen capital from freaking Malaysia. That's not how it works. You should realize that, Drew. You should realize that I'm so stressed I could literally scream until my throat bleeds. You should…

You should support me.

The corners of Charlotte's mouth fell into a mournful frown and his eyes darted to the keyboard. That's all she wanted, her husband to support and encourage her, to hold her in his arms after a long day of grief, kiss her forehead, and tell her it was okay. She wanted him to be there for her and to look at her the way he used to when they were first married. She wanted him to make love to her with the raw, unbridled passion he had the first time they did it in his dorm room, being quiet to keep from waking his roommate. God, that was so hard, hahaha. They kissed and moaned into each other's mouths the whole time, and though she told him to pull out before they started, neither cared when the end came and he didn't.

Those days felt long ago and far away sometimes, and she pined for them the way an old woman might her sepia-toned youth. The Drew she fell in love with was loving, tender, and made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. The Drew of today, even at his best, didn't.

Who's fault was that?

That thought came suddenly, like a bullet from the void, and made her blink. She had been telling herself that circumstance was to blame. She used vague analogies like "rocky" and "rough patch" and "drifting apart" that placed guilt on neither one of them, but instead on God, the Devil, and Bob. But what if one of them _was _at fault here? Was it him...or was it her? Somewhere, she feared, the passion had died in their marriage, and she couldn't tell who was responsible. Maybe Drew, or maybe not. Maybe she was looking at it wrong, maybe _she _was the selfish one, longing for her husband to be the same man he was twenty years ago and unhappy because he wasn't.

Of course he wasn't! It wouldn't be fair to expect him to be.

No, no, it _was _him. All she wanted was a little support here, he was the one pissy because she had to work late. She was understanding with him. He travelled out of town on business at least once every other month, and she _never _busted his balls about it. You do what you have to do. She accepted that. Sure, she didn't like sleeping alone, and absolutely there were times she wished he was there, holding her, kissing her, making love to her like he used to, but you don't always get what you want in life. That's not how it works. How many times had it all fallen on her? How many times did she have to juggle work, cooking, cleaning, taking care of Angellica, grocery shopping, and paying the bills because he was halfway across the country? Because he was having cocktails with the boss and brown nosing his fat, bloated old ass?

Did _she _ever complain? Did she ever accuse him of cheating or doing something he shouldn't be? No, she didn't. She stood by him and gave him all the support she could possibly provide. Why wouldn't he do the same for her? Why did he act like she was some common slut or criminal when he knew goddamn well that she wasn't?

Now she was mad. Anger smoldered like hot coals in her chest and her shoulders rose and fell with the ragged pant of her breath. Her nostrils flared, lending her the appearance of a dragon, and her nails dug deep into the chair's leather padding. Drew was probably the one cheating. He was just projecting to assuage his own guilty conscious. She could see him on his little "business trips" now, sitting in some dive bar and eye-fucking a skank from across the room while his dadughter lay in her bed waiting for Daddy to come and his wife ached for his touch.

Rage surged through her like a jolt of electricity and she almost lashed out at the computer screen but stayed her hand at the last second and took a deep, calming breath. She was just on edge from Drew and this crazy workload. She needed to get the taxes done and over with and worry about everything else later on. Sitting here and thinking about it wasn't going to solve anything. In fact, it would lead to overthinking, and overthinking made things worse. With her, the more she worried at something - like prodding an infected tooth - the more tightly wound she became until everything was blown out of proportion, a mountain a molehill and a simple "hello" in place of "good morning, honey, I love you" a clear and ominous sign of marital breakdown. She forced another deep breath and reached for the mouse, then remembered that she had to call Drew.

Sigh.

Maybe an email?

No, she couldn't do that. He was her husband, for crying out loud.

But if he started in on her, she couldn't promise she wouldn't snap his head off, not with the mood she was in.

For a moment she wavered, then picked up her iPhone and swiped her thumb across the screen. She brought up her contacts list, found Drew's name directly below Dr. Lipschitz, and tapped it. She pressed the phone to her ear and waited, her stomach beginning to churn with something approaching dread. Drew answered on the fifth ring with a terse, "Hello," that gave her pause. She really, _really _didn't want to fight.

"Hey, it's me," she said.

Tense silence filled the line and neither one broke it for nearly ten seconds. "Let me guess," Drew said, "you're working late again."

"Yes, Drew, I'm working late again," she said. She spun the chair around and faced the window. Slats of scarlet light cleaved across her wan features and her lips puckered bitterly. A pang of guilt rippled through her stomach and her a steely band closed tight around her chest. Why did his tone make her feel guilty? Why did it cut so deeply? "I need to get this tax work done." A hint of pleading crept into her voice. Please understand...please don't make me feel worse than I already do.

On the other side of town, Drew let out a sharp breath, and Charlotte could imagine him rolling his eyes to the ceiling and shaking his head in exasperation. "What do you want me to do, Drew?" she spat defensively. "Just not do it? Let the company go to hell because you're being a selfish asshole?"

"Me?" Drew cried. "I've been taking care of everything for weeks, even before this tax thing. You could have hired someone else to do it but noooo, you had to take it upon yourself. Sometimes I think you don't even want to come home to your family at night."

"That's bullshit and you know it," she said. "I'm _working, _Drew, working. I'm sorry you have to feed our daughter dinner and put her to bed. I'm sorry you can't just come home and have someone do everything for you. I'm sorry, but I need to keep MergeCorp but being shut down because God knows we can't live off _your _paltry little paycheck."

The dam Charlotte had so carefully crafted to hold back her emotions started to crumble, and her heart leapt into her throat. All of the worry, stress, and agitation of the past few weeks...nay, the past few months...roiled like a storm tossed sea, and she could not stop it all from sweeping out in a black, killing deluge.

"You know what? That's your goddamn problem. You think you're better than me. Ever since you got out of the mailroom over there and _happened _into that corner office, you've been little Miss High and Mighty."

Charlotte blinked. "W-What? No I haven't."

"Yes you have," Drew said. "You've been rubbing my face in it for years and I'm tired of it."

Those final four words tore into Charlotte like shrapnel. "I'm tired of you being a self-centered prick. I work my ass off to support us, Drew. I work my ass off so we can retire early and live a good life. You don't appreciate that. You go on business trips all the time, do I give you grief? No, I do what has to be done. You won't do the same for me. You're an asshole and I swear to God, I'm getting really close to leaving you."

She didn't know she was going to say that until it was out, and she instantly regretted it.

Shocked silence filled the line, and Charlotte could feel Drew's withering glare. "Fine," he said tightly.

The call ended.

Charlotte sat there a moment, dazed, then jammed the phone into her blazer pocket. Her heart slammed into her ribcage in a frenzied attempt to escape the terrible realization that she threatened to leave the man she loved...and meant it...and her stomach twisted so hard her breathing hitched. She swallowed thickly, heaved a deep breath through her nose, and turned.

She froze.

Johnathan stood on the other side of the desk.

Tall and thin with blonde hair combed neatly back from a broad forehead and clad in a light blue three piece suit over a pink Oxford, Jontathan was her personal assistant and, perhaps, the closest thing she had to a best friend.

How much did he hear?

His angular face, cheekbones high and delicate and lips sensuous and pouty, was a mask of practiced neutrality; he showed no signs that he had heard anything, but he never would. He was too coiffed and professional for that.

Charlotte flicked her eyes to the desk and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"I finished the report. I wanted you to look it over before I fax it."

"Thank you," Charlotte said.

He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but she cut him off. "You can go home now. Y-You can do that tomorrow."

Jonathan arched his brow. She was not one to put things off herself and was certainly not one to let her underlings put things off. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"You're staying?"

It was all she could do to keep from snapping at him. "Yes," she said, "I'm staying."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Would you like something to eat?"

Her stomach turned. "No, just...go." She held her hand up like a traffic cop halting a reckless sedan. "I have a lot to do. Just...leave me alone."

Jonathan nodded. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, he turned and scurried out of the office. Alone, Charlotte drew a deep, watery sigh and blinked away the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. A lump of emotion rose in her throat and she swallowed it down; it dropped into her stomach like a chunk of ice and for a second, she thought she was going to be sick.

Doing her best to put the argument with Drew out of her head, she got back to work, but it haunted the fringes of her consciousness like a vengeful phantom, nagging her overwrought mind and breaking her concentration. At seven, she broke and went into the dayroom off the main hall. Everyone else had gone and deep, eerie silence pervaded the building. Long hallways stretched off on either side of her, some darkened and others lit by dim fluorescent lights that flickered with low, ghostly hums. A shiver went down her spine and her hands unconsciously balled into fists just in case she needed to defend herself from someone...or something. In the kitchenette, her stomach growled and she realized for the first time that she was hungry despite her argument with Drew.

She crossed to the fridge and stopped. A yellow Post-It note with her name on it stared back at her. Huh. What's this doing here? She peeled it off and studied it but there were no other markings on it, nothing to indicate its purpose or reason for being. She crumpled it up and tossed it at the trash can in the corner; it hit the rim, bounced off, and landed in a sticky coffee stain surrounded by crumbs. The cleaner could deal with it.

Inside the fridge, another Post-It greeted her, this one taped to a styrofoam container.

CHARLOTTE.

Jonathan's handwriting, tight, clear, and neat, was unmistakable.

Puzzled, she plucked it off and read the script beneath her name. _This is for you. I knew you would want it. _

Okay…?

She took the container out and opened it. Inside were a chicken salad sandwich, a bag of chips, and a pickle spear. Her stomach rumbled.

At least there was one man she could count on.

Taking her food to one of the tables, sat hurriedly ate, taking two bites at a time to speed things up. She had a lot to do still and didn't want to be here all night. If she could swing it, she wanted to get home before ten, that way she and Drew could have a talk.

Her guts clenched at the thought of confronting her husband, but they needed to sit down and really hash out their problems in a civilized, adult manner. She would lay out everything she thought and felt and open herself to examining and considering what _he _thought and felt. He said she acted as though she were better than him. Her first reaction was to scoff and call him insecure, but _had _she? She went back over every memory she could readily call up and she honestly couldn't recall a single time she had been condescending to him. Why would she be? He was the chief human resources office of a large financial institution, a perfectly respectable career. He didn't bring home as much as she did and she wasn't shy about saying so, but she didn't rub it in his face.

Did she?

Again, she wracked her brain for any instance where she may have made Drew feel inferior, whether intentionally or not, but came back empty-handed. Was she misremembering? Or was he insecure?

She didn't know, and by the time she was done with dinner, she was so knotted and turned around that she barely knew which way was up. She sank into her chair with a weary sigh, threw her head back, and stared up at the ceiling, seeking supplication from on high but finding none.

Alright.

Back to work.

Then…

Drew.

At nine, head hot and achy, she shut down the computer and rubbed her tired eyes. She threw her purse over her shoulder and left the building, the echoing click of her heels on the tiled lobby floor reverberating and creating the illusion someone was following her. Even though she knew that nobody was, the back of her neck tingled and she quickened her step. In the parking garage, harsh orange light bathed the water-splotched concrete walls and the roar of traffic on the nearby interstate found her ears. In her Benz, she tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, pulled her seatbelt on, and backed up. At the big roll top doors, she pushed a button on her keyfob and they opened.

Instead of getting on the highway, she turned left and traveled surface streets, her hands so tight on the wheel that her knuckles turned white and a grim expression tattooed on her face. Glare from passing streetlamps streaked across her dour features like firelight and her stomach reeled the closer she got to home.

She was delaying.

Taking a deep breath, she turned on the radio and found a station playing 90s pop, the kind of music that scored the very fringes of her memory, when she was young, innocent, and had no greater care in the world than whether there was another Rocket Pop in the freezer or not. She was not given to nostalgia or sentimentality but right now, with a looming deadline and a marriage that might very well be on the verge of collapse, being six again sounded really freaking nice.

No matter _how _much her parents argued.

And no matter how much that little hussy Amber Paulson down the street made fun of her missing tooth and pigtails.

Whatever happened to her, anyway? She and her family moved away and Charlotte never saw her again. She was so happy she went and danced in their front yard as the moving van pulled away. She specifically remembered seeing Amber's face in the rearview mirror, and Charlotte made sure to spin around, wiggle her hips, and thrust her index finger into the air. _Oh, yeah, you're leaving, oh, yeah. _

She really hated that little bitch.

Five minutes later, she turned onto her street. Evenly spaced lamps cast murky glow on the sidewalk and the houses fronting the lane blazed with lights like ships at sail. She passed Stu and DeeDee's house and pulled into her driveway, the headlights splashing across the closed garage door. She parked, cut the engine, and sat behind the wheel for almost five minutes, pumping herself up for what was ahead. Hopefully Angellica was asleep in case she and Drew fought.

Heh.

There was no _in case _about it. They _were _going to fight and Charlotte just hoped she had enough patience to not do or say anything she would regret.

Better do this and get it over with.

Snatching the keys from the ignition, she grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and got out. The cool night breeze rushed over her fevered face and stirred the trees along the sidewalk; if she listened closely, she could almost mistake it for the sound of many voices whispering low and urgent warnings. She was halfway up the walk when something occurred to her.

The house was dark.

No light shone in the front window and an air of desolation washed over her, as strong and tangible as the very wind around her. She came to a grinding halt and shot a reflexive look around in anticipation of being rushed, a hapless fly in a spider's elaborate trap. The yard stood empty to her right, and the driveway…

That's when it hit her.

Drew's car was gone.

He wasn't here.

Charlotte's head spun. Where could he be?

And where was Angellica?

It was way past her bedtime. Surely he didn't drag her out of bed to -

Another thought bobbed to the surface of her mind, and her blood froze. She hurried up the walk and climbed the steps, fumbling with her purse as she went. She yanked her keys, opened the door, and went inside, pausing to feel for the lightswitch. The living room, modern and tastefully furnished, was deserted and cold but as tidy and normal as ever, which only served to increase Charlotte's foreboding. She looked around for some sign of where her husband and daughter might be, and found it in the form of a sheet of paper held in place on the coffee table by the remote. Her heart dropped, and for some inexplicable reason, she was scared to pick it up and learn its contents.

For a moment she simply stared at it, like a woman might a venomous snake, then her feet carried her to the table. She picked it up and read it with sinking dread.

_Charlotte -_

_I took Angellica to Stu and DeeDee's. I need a week or two away. I do so much around here and you don't appreciate any of it. I will call soon. Maybe. _

_-Drew. _

She reread it several times, her anger growing on every pass until the paper crumpled in her grasp and her entire body began to shake. Didn't appreciate it? DIDN'T APPRECIATE IT? That was a goddamn lie! Son of a bitch, lying bastard, stupid fuck.

Baring her teeth, she attacked the paper in a burst of frenzy and tore it to shreds. Pieces littered the carpet like broken dreams and the world took on a watery sheen as tears filled Charlotte's eyes.

She sank onto the couch, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

* * *

Jonathan Kraskell navigated his silver 2017 Porsche Macan down North Highland Avenue. The engine purried and strained to be opened full throttled; the car was a firecracker and didn't like going slow, much like Jonathan himself. Forty-two and tall with a toned chest and defined biceps almost always hidden beneath a tailor-made Armani suit, Jonathan was a many of many faces, each facet of his personality taking over as his surroundings dictated. He was cold, clinical, and detail-oriented at work, unable to miss a single thing and submitting to the demands of the day (and his superiors). In his free time, he rode motorcycles, parasailed, and drove fast, but he also enjoyed reading a good book by the fire or painting. He wasn't very good at the latter, his work ranging from _ew _to _it almost looks like something, _but he enjoyed himself.

He was yin-and-yang, his pragmatism peaceably co-existing with his carefree side. Once, as a younger man, the latter half dominated. He drank on weeknights, came into work late, and left as early as possible so he could go have fun. As he grew older, he mellowed, and began to take this life thing more seriously. He was nearly thirty at the time and working in the mailroom of a burgeoning corporation under the direct supervision of a high riding blonde bitch on wheels. _This isn't where I want to spend the rest of my life, _he decided, so he knuckled down, went back to school for his MBA, and reshaped himself into the perfect corporate yes-man, the type of employee who would perhaps never captain his own department, but who would always have the right answer at the right time and always be considered a valuable asset.

Now he worked in an office room of a burgeoning corporation under the direct supervision of a high riding blonde bitch on wheels.

Some things never changed, he supposed.

Only they had. His relationship with Charlotte had grown and developed over the years. You can't work side-by-side with someone for over a decade, seeing them at their worst _and _best, without coming to care for them. In the beginning, he hated that little hussy, but now, if he were honest with himself, she was likely the best friend he had. He certainly spent more time with her than anyone else. She worked long, grueling hours and he stayed with her, first out of obligation and then because he genuinely wanted to help her. She could be brash, abrasive, selfish, and a lot of other things, but deep down in that steely breast of her beat a kind and well-intentioned heart. She wanted MergeCorp and its employees to succeed, and she inspired him to want success for _her_.

Presently, Charlotte's house appeared ahead on the left, a tall two story affair with a blue terra cotta roof and big bay windows overlooking a neatly trimmed lawn. Her car sat in the driveway and the morning paper lay on the flagstone walk where it had been deposited by some fresh-faced paperboy hours before. Its presence stood out to Jonathan because Charlotte and her husband were not the type of people to leave anything lying in their yard, even a newspaper. An invisible hand twisted his chest and his pouty lips pressed together in a worried purse.

That morning, Charlotte called out sick. That alone was cause for alarm, as Charlotte came into work regardless (even when she had a puking-and-shitting stomach bug and was highly contagious). When he asked after the tax work, which needed to be done before the fifteenth, she croaked _I don't care, you do it. _

No words had ever hit Jonathan harder, not even his father saying _I hate your guts _when he found out Jonathan was bisexual. It wasn't so much that she passed the taxes onto him - though that was bad enough because she believed she was Superwoman and only she could do it - it was the hollow, burned out tone of her voice. She sounded like she honestly _didn't _care, and that bothered Jonathan, because even half dead with the flu, Charlotte _did _care.

He assured her he would handle it and had; he managed to squeeze twelve hours worth of work into seven and expected to be done tomorrow afternoon, well ahead of the deadline. The whole day, however, the phone call with Charlotte niggled the back of his mind like a quarrelsome bit of food stuck in his teeth. By lunch, his stomach sloshed with slick, greasy disquiet, and his chest throbbed like an abscessed tooth. Something was really wrong. She wouldn't have called in like this unless it was deathly serious.

Maybe it wasn't his place...maybe it was premature...but he decided then and there to check in on her after work.

Presently, he parked at the curb and cut the engine. A warm crosswind flowed through the open windows and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass tickled his nose. Children ran up and down the sidewalk, giggling and screaming at one another, and a lawn mower droned in the distance. He had always liked Charlotte's neighborhood and fully intended to live in one just like it one day. That, however, would require a wife and kids; it didn't seem right for a single man such as him to live in a big, empty house in a nice neighborhood. A place like this seemed fit only for families or the very old. He had no family and while he was starting to gray, he didn't consider himself old. Not yet.

Grabbing the keys from the ignition, he got out and slipped his sunglasses off, shoving them into the breast pocket of his white Oxford. He took his jacket and tie off when he left the office and rolled his shirt sleeves up. It was too warm to be covered and if it were a Saturday, he would be in either a tank top or a polo.

He slammed the door, crossed the lawn, and stooped to retrieve the newspaper. He climbed the steps, rang the bell, and waited.

When Charlotte didn't appear after a full minute (he knew it was a minute because he timed it on his watch), he rang it again. To the best of Jonathan's knowledge, both Charlotte and Drew parked their cars in the driveway. That Drew's wasn't here told him he was probably at work. Why in the name of God he would leave his wife - who had to be shockingly ill - alone was beyond Jonathan. Visions of Charlotte curled up on the bathroom floor and too sick to answer the door danced through his head, and his stomach knotted. He started to knock but let his hand drop when the knob rattled.

Charlotte appeared in the doorway, and Jonathan missed a beat. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, frazzled strands sticking out as though she'd jammed her finger into an electrical socket, and dark bags underpinned her puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her sallow flesh hung slack from her skull like uncooked dough, and her body - so lithe and sleek that Jonathan couldn't help admiring it - was lost in the folds of a frumpy pink bathrobe.

She looked like she had been crying, and Jonathan's heart sank. "Are you alright?" he ejaculated.

"Yes," she mumbled, "fine. Just totally fine."

Her lips quivered and water flooded her eyes. Her shoulders hitched, and covering her face with one hand, she began to cry.

For a moment, Jonathan was too dumbstruck to react. 5'9 and 130 pounds had never seemed bigger or more imposing on anyone as it did Charlotte. She was a rock and had faced every battering storm Jonathan had seen her weather with grace, dignity, and unimpeachable bravery. She was the last person - the _last _\- he ever expected to see sobbing desolately into her hand, and the surreality of actually beholding it made his head spin.

She leaned heavily against the frame for support, and Jonathan came alive. Shushing her, he laid his hand on her arm and led her inside, closing the door behind him. He helped her to the couch and they sat. He took her hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze to let her know that he was here as a friend, not as an employee. "Shhh, it's going to be alright." He glanced nervously around, expecting Drew to come out after all, but the living room was deserted save for them. That Drew wasn't here perplexed him. Something terrible had obviously -

His eyes widened.

Drew.

In a flash, it all made sense. There had been an accident and Drew had been killed.

Charlotte shook with the force of her sobs, and Jonathan tenderly caressed the back of her hand. "Shhh. Tell me what's wrong."

She propped her elbow on the arm of the couch, turned her head - to hide her shame, he imagined - and made a visible effort to wrestle control of herself from the jaw of hysteria. She sniffled, blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm, and took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's Drew," she said, her voice a cracking whisper.

"What about him?"

"He left me."

Jonathan blinked in surprise. "H-He left you?"

All at once, the conversation he overheard between her and Drew the previous afternoon came back to him. _I'm really close to leaving you, _she had said. He thought nothing of it at the time because the idea of Drew and Charlotte actually separating was inconceivable. He had been to their home more times than he could remember, and they seemed happy and very much in love. So much so that Jonathan hoped to one day have a marriage like theirs. He looked to them as the ideal of unity and partnership, and trying to imagine them apart sent his brain haywire.

"He left me a note," Charlotte said. "He said he needed a break."

She told him all about hers and Drew's recent problems, and he listened intently, his thumb brushing unconsciously over her knuckles. She teared up a few times and had to stop, and he waited for her with care and unending patience. She rambled, thinking aloud as she sometimes did when grappling with a problem too big to contain fully within her head, and Jonathan nodded and made monosyllabic remarks where appropriate.

When she was finished, she took a deep, burdened breath. Her eyes were pink and raw, but dry, and her gaze put him uncomfortably in mind shell-shocked veterans returning broken from war. "The worst part," she said flaty, "is that I'm glad he's gone."

The iciness in her voice knocked Jonathan off balance.

"Isn't that horrible?" she asked. "I'm glad he's not here...and that's what bothers me most." She hugged herself tightly and shivered. "My marriage is over. Even if he comes back. Which I hope he doesn't." She swallowed hard and sniffed deeply.

"It's only been a couple of hours," Jonathan pointed out. "Maybe you'll feel differently after more time has passed."

Charlotte shook her head. "I won't. I've been unhappy for a long time. I see that now." She shuddered again.

If Jonathan didn't know any better, he'd say she was in shock. Literal shock, as though Drew _had _died. He had to handle this situation very delicately. "You just need to relax a little bit. And I know just the thing."

Charlotte looked at him strangely, then turned away, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "I doubt that will make me feel any better, Jonathan."

"It always does," he said.

She pursed her lips, then grudgingly presented her back. Jonathan laid his hands on her shoulders and began to rub firm, slow circles in her bunched muscles. She was rigid at first, then relaxed a little. "I don't know where it went wrong," she said, a hint of genuine bafflement in her voice. "I just...is it something _I _did?"

"No,' Jonathan said, "you did nothing wrong, Charlotte. You've done everything you can to give your family a good life. You work hard and do whatever it takes to provide." He brushed his thumbs up the gentle slope of her neck. Charlotte ducked her head and he massaged the spot behind her ears. He had given her many stress-relieving massages over the years and knew all the right places to touch. He pressed his thumbs to the base of her skull, then ran them firmly down the back of her neck, his movements deft and sure. Charlotte's stress slowly melted away and she turned into putty in his hands, her breathing deep and regular. He had never seen her face when he massaged her, but he liked to envision it: Closed eyelids fluttering in rapture, lips slightly parted, bliss upon her features.

For much of his life, Jonathan believed that he was gay, but as he aged, he discovered that he was very much attracted to women, but only those of a certain type: Strong, dynamic, forceful, but decidedly femnine.

Women like Charlotte.

He grazed his nails over her scalp, her hair soft and warm despite its unbrushed state. She hummed in the back of her throat and Jonathan kneaded her scalp like a kitten rooting for its mother's teat.

Yes, Charlotte was exactly the type of woman he was attracted to and it would be a lie to say that he had never admired her womanly form; her hips, just wide enough to suggest fertility, drew his attention most. He stole the occasional glance at the swell of her behind, but her overall shape - perfect hourglass figure - is what he appreciated most. She was not beautiful, at least not in the classic sense, but she was steady and self-assured, and those traits more than compensated.

He had never considered pursuing her and likely never would. She was married _and _his boss. Trying anything untoward would be both unprofessional and morally reprehensible.

But that wasn't the whole reason.

Charlotte was his best friend and he enjoyed their relationship as it was. They sometimes went out for drinks, had each other over for dinner, worked together like a well-oiled machine, and shared infrequent moments of laughter and camaraderie made all the most special and satisfying for their rarity.

He could not say he carried a flame for her, for he was not a lovestruck schoolboy with a crush, but her cared for her, and if circumstances were different, he could see himself with her. As it stood, he was content to simply be her friend.

That did not, however, mean he didn't enjoy massaging her in a carnal and unwholesome way. He did. Very much. The warmth of her body close to his, the shape of her shoulders beneath his hands, and the clean scent of her hair in his nose greatly excited him, and unless he pointedly concentrated, he would become erect.

"I don't love him anymore," she said. Her voice was low and thick as if with drunkenness. His massages tended to put her in a state of transcendental meditation, something he took great pride in because it meant he was accomplishing what he set out to do. "I don't feel it the way I used to."

Jonathan shushed her. "Don't think about that," he said. "Just focus on relaxing. You're under a lot of stress and you deserve relief." He raked his nails slowly down her scalp, then rubbed behind her ears again. A tremor went through her, and she tilted her head back, her hair ghosting across the tip of his nose. He did not inhale for if he did, his fragile resolve would crumble and his body would respond.

"That feels really good," she slurred. She laid her head back on his shoulder, and his throat swelled. He swallowed and stroked his fingertip up the sides of her neck again. She shifted her butt and bit her lower lip, then slowly began to rub her thighs together.

Jonathan's hands sputtered.

She was aroused.

Her closed eyelids rippled just as they always had in his fantasies and a deep, fevered blush spread across her cheeks. She squeezed her legs close and let out a breathy sigh, her back arching ever so slightly. Jonathan's concentration shattered like a pane of brittle glass and he felt himself beginning to sitr. He laid his hands firmly on her shoulders and took a deep breath. "We should stop," he said.

"I don't want you to," she said.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed again, dangerously close to saying _I don't want to either_. "W-We should stop," he said again.

Charlotte Pickles was a dominant woman who took what she wanted from life. Jonathan knew this and he knew that if she wanted to continue, they would continue. The best course of action would have been to get up and leave, but he made no move to stand, and when she laid her hand on his and guided it into her robe, he did not resist. He was a lot of things - a friend, a confidante, and a loyal manservant of the Reginald Jeeves school - but overall, he was a man, and when his fingertips skimmed over the quivering flesh of her breast, he gave in. Closing his hand around it, he caressed her stiffened nipple. Charlotte sucked a sharp intake of breath through her nose and let it out as a long, low purr. Her legs rubbed slowly, sensually, creating friction.

They had not reached the point of no return. It was still only a massage. He could still extract himself. He commanded his hands to stop, but instead, they pulled the front of her robe open, exposing her full, teardrop breasts. The fabric slipped down her shoulders, her flesh creamy and without blemish. Her brown nipples stuck out before her, hard and throbbing, and he cupped her left breast in his hand even though he specifically ordered that hand to stop.

Charlotte's moist, parted lips sparkled in the sunlight falling through the curtain over the front window and she drew short bursts of air into her heaving lungs. Jonathan gazed longingly at her face, captivated by her beauty, for in that moment she _was _beautiful. His dick prodded the inseam of his pants, and he realized that his mind was beginning to blur with lust.

Even so, he still could have stopped. They hadn't gone too far.

Then he pressed his lips to the side of her neck and kissed her,

And finally...there was no going back.

Charlotte moaned, reached back, and ran her fingers through his hair, her robe thrown entirely open now to bare her body. Jonathan trailed urgent kisses up the curve of her throat, the salty taste of her skin filling his mouth and steeping his brain. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, kissed her jawline, her cheek, losing himself to animal desire. Charlotte panted for air and made tiny noises of pleasure in the back of her throat, arching her back needily into his touch. His hand crept down her taut stomach and his lips tasted the corner of her mouth. She turned her head, cupped the back of his neck in her hand, and brought his lips to hers like a starving woman. His tongue swept into her mouth and she lashed it with hers. His hand reached the juncture of her thighs and closed his hand over her center. Her wet, baking heat knocked the air from his lungs and his kiss faltered; Charlotte attacked his tongue, tacking it to the roof of his mouth, and rocked her hips insistently against his hand, begging him to massage between her legs as he had everywhere else.

Getting hold of himself, he sank his middle finger between her folds and stroked her soft middle. His thumb gently circled her clit, making her jump, and his ring finger traced the rim of her leaky opening. Hot fluid coated his hand, sizzling his flesh, and her nails tore desperately at his scalp, urging him on.

She pushed him away and in her half-lidded eyes, Jonathan saw the predatory need of a puma in heat. Laying her hands on his shoulders, she shifted onto his lap and pinned him against the couch's padded back rest. The dank heat gushing from her spread middle pooled in his lap, and his dick slammed into his pants in a frenzied attempt to get to her. Charlotte took his face in her hands and grazed her thumbs lovingly over his cheekbones, the robe slipping to her elbows and her breasts heaving with the tide of her unsteady breathing. She stared dazedly into his eyes, as though shocked by what they were doing...but enjoying it nevertheless

Unhanding him, she pulled the robe off and tossed it aside. Jonathan savored her naked body with his eyes, her dips, curves, and slopes even more pronounced and feminine than he had ever imagined. She slid her fingers into his hair, tilted her head to one side, and glanced the tip of her nose over his like an Eskimo greeting her mate. Her fragrant breath broke across Jonathan's lips, and he drank deeply of it, letting his cup run over and not caring that she was married...or his boss...or even his friend...only that she was warm, soft, and a woman.

She claimed his lips with hers, and they kissed again, slower this time, more tenderly, and Johnathan put his hands on her hips, reveling in the feeling of her body. She raked her fingers through his hair and made love to his tongue with hers, the muffled sounds of delight rising from her throat the sweetest music. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants, smiled against his lips, and fumbled with his belt. How had he never noticed her eyes before? Chocolate brown with breathtaking strains of gold that glinted in the sunlight, they shimmered with a naughty gleam that made her look far younger than her thirty-seven years, and far, far more kittenish than he ever thought possible.

"You're really hard," she said, pleased.

His bulge prodded impatiently between her lips.

"I am," he said, "for you."

A Chesire smile danced across her lips. She unbuttoned his pants and pulled the flaps apart. He lifted his butt off the cushion and tugged them down, along with his underwear. His member sprang out like a spring loaded snake from a can of gag peanuts and burrowed between Charlotte's lips. Flesh to flesh, her sickly heat was dizzying and her fluid almost painfully hot. She gasped and bit her bottom lip again like a delighted schoolgirl exploring the mysteries of a boy's body for the first time. She braced her hands on his shoulders, aligned their sexes, then jerked her hips down. His dick sank into her boiling core, and a hitching moan ripped from his lips. Charlotte moaned and dug her nails into his shoulders as if to keep herself from being blown away on a surge of sensation. She pressed her forehead to his, her nose smooshing his nose, and began to rock. Jonathan wrapped his arms around her and thrusted up into her downward motions, his tip kissing the back of her womb and her walls pumping his tightening shaft.

Charlotte flattened herself against his body and brought her hips down in long, smooth strokes. Jonathan cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, and she went faster, back flexing, butt clenching. "Oh, God," she sighed. Her voice danced the razor edge between agony and nirvana.

Jonathan's orgasm formed like molten lead in the pit of his stomach and he gritted his teeth, willing it away. It came regardless, and in moments, it consumed him in a crackling nuclear flash fire. He cried out a warning, but Charlotte's cries of "I'm cumming!" drowned it out. She came down hard, taking him to the hilt, and he could hold back no longer. His rod swelled against her walls then shuddered as his load spurted from him in a soul sucking rush. Charlotte bit down on his shoulder to stifle her screams, and Jonathan tightened his grip around her, thrusting each volley of his essence as deep into her sacred passage as he could get it.

For a time, they held each other, panting and sweating and covered in their combined juices. Together, they drifted on tides of exactly and slowly came back down. The musky purfume of warm sex filled the air and Charlotte's breasts smooshed into his chest, her litttle heart racing like a frightened rabbit. The sudden urge to protect her came over him and he held her close, his lips trailing kisses along her shoulder and the side of her neck. She responded by snuggling up to him and offering a long, satisfied hum.

"I feel better now," she said.

Jonathan ran his hand over her back. "So do I."

She pushed away and favored him with a wicked little grin that raked the embers in his belly. "Let's do it again."

Taking him by the hand, she led him up the stairs, and indeed, they _did _do it again.

Then, when they were done, they cuddled each other until sleep took them. Jonathan didn't know what their future together held, but he did know this: He loved Charlotte Pickles and if he could, he would change her last name to Kraskell.

THE END.


End file.
